A Study of Dreams
by AbbyTheBlue
Summary: Dreams are, at least, on a scientific note, almost always considered to be created by the mind and certainly never real. Sherlock, as rather a scientist himself, of course agreed. That is, until a strange bow-tied man began appearing in one of his dreams saying he was trapped. Helping him didn't seem too hard, but doing it while remaining alive and unharmed was a different story.
1. Chapter 1

Merriam Webster Dictionary defines a dream as "an idea or vision that is created in your imagination and is not real". Of course, such definitions are bound to have traces of inaccuracy in this day and age, as at the point when this dictionary was written people didn't fully understand dreams, didn't understand how they were formed in the mind, etc. But this definition is quite possibly more obsolete than any of the others, because, as Sherlock found out that September of 2015, dreams were by no means unreal.

Sherlock's dreams were like everyone else's, seemingly nonsensical, but he was able to explain them. Most were lucid, as he was clever enough to recognize when he was in a dream. But while it may have been more difficult in a dream, Sherlock could tell when something was off in any situation. And the first dream he had about the Doctor was most definitely off.

It started fairly normally, as far as dreams go. He found he was in Baker Street, and everything was exactly the same, only his flat was replaced by a massive spider web. He was seated in a chair held up by the strands, trying to focus on a case about a murder, only spiders kept bothering him and gossipping about people he didn't know. He often dreamed about spiders and spider webs. It had been linked with feeling like an outsider or unusual, which was true and accepted for Sherlock. He knew it was a dream and the case was meaningless, but he couldn't help but focus on it anyway.

Then it changed. He found himself standing in a nice, furnished sort of room, like the waiting room at a therapist's office. It had two couches and a chair surrounding a brown table, a few pictures of flowers on the wall, a red carpet, and a classy, decorated light fixture. It wasn't exactly impressive, but he never remembered being here before.

"Jammy Dodger?" someone said. Sherlock looked around for the voice, in the corners and to the door, only to find when he looked back it was coming from the strange looking man on the velvet red couch. He had appeared only a few seconds ago, along with the tray of jammy dodgers on the table in front of him. The man sat casually against the arm and back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, with an aloof sort of smile on his face. He had a tall, fairly skinny figure, gravity-indifferent brown hair, a sharp, protruding chin and greenish brownish eyes. He wore a white button down and a brown jacket, with a red bowtie and suspenders hidden underneath. Sherlock would have been more confused were this not a dream, but even still, he'd never seen anything like it. Not to mention it was far more vivid than usual.

"This… is a dream, right?" he verified.

"Oh, yes, of course!" The strange man agreed, raising his eyebrows and nodding, "I know, they won't taste like much, but your brain will get the signal that you're eating a jammy dodger and in the moment it'll feel like you can taste something," he said, peering at his jammy dodger, "That's something I suppose."

It would have been smarter to be untrusting, but he couldn't get hurt by doing something in what he knew was a dream. So he shrugged. "Alright," he said. Jammy Dodgers were pretty good. He grabbed one off the tray as he sat down on the opposite side of the couch. He took a bite into it. It didn't taste like anything, but his mind was trying to insist that it was sweet and he could imagine himself pretty far. Like reading a very descriptive story in the second person.

"I haven't seen you here before," Sherlock said, creasing his eyebrows as he crossed one leg over the other.

"Oh, well, that could be normal. It _is_ a dream, can't always be sure what'll happen," he casually explained, taking another bite of his jammy dodger. Sherlock nodded. It was true, and yet he didn't quite believe it. He'd never had a dream like this before, and none of it fit with what was in his mind. Eating sweets in a dream indicating implications of a faith he didn't have, waiting in a room, meaning he was tired of waiting, but he had nothing to wait for. This really was odd.

"So, what are you trying to tell me?" Sherlock asked him.

"Tell you?" the man asked.

"Well, I assume this is some complex message from my subconscious," Sherlock responded coolly. The stranger laughed softly as though there had been some amusing misunderstanding.

"Oh no, you have me all wrong," he told him, "I'm just popping in to say hi, I don't live here," he explained vaguely. His eyes swept around the cheap little waiting room, noticing little details. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, confused, but was cut off. "Quite a nice little place you've got here. Very complex,"

"What… my mind?" Sherlock asked with a cock of his head.

"Yes, precisely. You must be very clever, most people can't put in so much detail while they're asleep," his eyes locked onto the ground, "Even the lint in the carpet..." he said idly.

Sherlock ran this through his head. Why would he compliment him like this, as though he'd never been here before? If this was a message, he couldn't understand it. He backtracked to something he'd said before, the best place to branch a question off of.

"What did you mean you don't live here?" Sherlock asked, "Live where?"

"Your mind," The man said making brief eye contact before looking around the room again. Sherlock creased his eyebrows, trying to find some logic in what he said.

"But… you're in my dream," he stated obviously. He knew he must have looked quite stupid, but nothing had been this nonsensical in a long time.

"Yes," the man agreed.

"Therefore you must be part of my conscious mind or my unconscious mind."

"Mm, no," the stranger disagreed.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sherlock snapped incredulously.

"No, I'm neither part of your conscious mind or your unconscious mind," his eyes drifted around the walls. Upon following them Sherlock found that the pictures were a different color than they were before, the red roses becoming yellow tulips. He did a double take. Not really unusual for a dream, but still startling.

"Then… who are you?" he asked, refocusing.

"I'm called the Doctor," he said, making eye contact with him once more.

"Alright, so…" Sherlock said, unable to keep a smile off his face. The man was just too interesting to wake up, "Supposing I decide to believe that you're not in my head, where are you?"

"I am in your head," The Doctor responded, "I'm just not _from_ your head."

"So you just decided to come into my subconscious for a visit?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving.

"Yes. Well, no, I mean, sort of." The Doctor said, trying to get a hold of too many thoughts at once. "I mean, I love the visit, but actually, that's not the only reason I'm here."

Sherlock creased his eyebrows, leaning forward. "Why are you here?"

"We'll get to that in a second," he responded with a passing hand gesture. It turned the carpet beige, but Sherlock ignored it. "First, you're probably wondering _how_ I'm here,"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "And besides that, where are you?"  
"I told you, inside your head."

"No… I mean, your body. I know that I am asleep, reclined in my bed and when I awake, that is where I will return. Where are you that you can just pass into my head?" Sherlock explained. The Doctor gave an untrustworthy sort of smirk, tapping the foot of the leg crossed over the other on the air.

"Psychospace," he told him simply.

"Psychospace?" Sherlock asked.

"Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say I have,"

"Well, I need to get out of it."

"But what is it?"

"In due time, anyway, back to why!" The Doctor said, quickly changing topics again. He leaned forward. The Jammy dodgers vanished and the light fixture turned into a lamp on the table beside them.

"You're clever, Sherlock," he told him, "And I need a very clever mind to get me out of Psychospace!" Sherlock leaned forward too, beginning to get frustrated.

"You have to explain what that is first! And who are you, Doctor who?"

"Not important, not important!" The Doctor said, waving his hands around in a frazzled manner. The sofas turned blue. "Can you help me?"

"Help you what?"

"Escape!"  
"Escape _what?!"_

"Escape the Psychospace!"

"What _is_ Psychospace?!" Sherlock demanded furiously. He smashed his hand on the table and sat up rapidly in his bed. The Doctor was gone. He was awake.

"Dammit…" Sherlock whispered sharply, looking around at his empty bedroom. He knew at this point he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. So, reluctantly, he got up and got dressed.


	2. Chapter 2

"You seem distracted," John noticed about halfway through the day, in front of the dead body of Jason May bloody in the barber shop. Sherlock tried to ignore him, examining the crime scene.

"I'm not," Sherlock lied.

"Come on, Sherlock, I know you're lying," John reminded him, sticking his hands in his pockets. Sherlock paused for a moment. He knew he couldn't tell him about the dream, or how he had been wondering about the Psychospace. So all he told him was,

"I have someone to meet up with tonight."

"Who?" asked John.

"A Doctor. Now come on, let's get to the case!" he insisted, irritated. John wanted to argue, but Sherlock was already walking over to look more closely at the dead body.

As soon as Sherlock got home, he went straight into his room and told John "Don't bother me!" on his way. John was frozen for a moment, running the message through his head. A little odd, he thought. Besides, wasn't he supposed to meet someone?

"Weren't you meeting up with someone?" John asked.

"Still am!" Sherlock called. John didn't really see how that was possible, but who knew what he was up to, he was Sherlock. He shrugged and headed into the living room, turning on the telly and absentmindedly watching as he thought about who Sherlock could possibly be meeting up with.

Sherlock opened his eyes to a long, grey town. It looked to be from about the 1950's, the way the shops and people were designed. It wasn't technically deserted, some people walked along the sidewalks and cars drove through the streets, but they didn't notice him. Their mouths moved but they made no sound, they wore no hats but their eyes were shadowed. Unimportant. Looking around to find the blue sky grey and the skin tones grey, Sherlock could see that everything was black and white like an old movie. Everything except one thing. An old 1950s police box sat in an alleyway, normal for the times aside from the fact that it was vibrant blue and everything else was dark. It probably meant something, but it wasn't his top priority.

"Doctor," he called out to the sky, "I'm back. Are you still here?"

"I am." Sherlock spun around a full 180 degrees to try and find the voice behind him. Then he turned around again to find the Doctor had appeared directly in front of him. He was sort of in color; not really all of him, but little elements like his vibrant alive eyes and his red bow-tie were as bright as the blue box. Even those colors, though, seemed to swim around his body and flicker like flashlights. "What do you need?" he asked, gently smiling.

"What's with the change of scenery?" Sherlock inquired.

"I don't know, it's your mind," The Doctor confessed with a shrug.

"Last time we met up you mentioned Psychospace," he told him.

"Yes," The Doctor agreed.

"You never told me what it was," Sherlock reminded him. The Doctor smiled somewhat knowingly. He crossed his arms, turning the barber shop across the street to a deli.

"I hope you're tired," he responded, "Because it's sort of a long story."

"I'll stay as long as I need," Sherlock insisted.

"Well," The Doctor began, "There are lots of questions in the universe. 'Why are we conscious?' 'Who created the stars?' 'What are hot dogs made of?' You don't want to know, it's pretty vile, anyway, that's not _important,_ none of these questions are the _big_ questions."

"What are the big questions?" Sherlock asked.

The Doctor listed them slowly, each time the word appearing in front of him, made of a constructed puff of smoke. "How," it appeared in red smoke, "Why," blue smoke, "What," green smoke, "When," purple smoke, "Where," yellow smoke, "And who," orange smoke. Sherlock watched as the words lined themselves up in rainbow order from left to right, so, like a power-point presentation made of smoke, the words HOW, WHO, WHERE, WHAT, WHY, and WHEN.

"There are two categories that you can it these questions into, but few fall strictly into one. First, there is Topospace." A green hill appeared out of smoke in front of the words and WHERE settled down on top of it.

"This is what you know as space, and it is the only category for Where. It is the physical, how any beings can travel. The next is a bit more advanced. Tempospace." As he said this a flickering void like a sun came into being by the colored smoke, in shades of orange and purple. It swirled within itself and the purple smoke came over to settle inside it.

"Fewer could manage to travel through this medium, as it is what you know as time travel. It is the only one that deals with the When. The rest of these fall in between, as how, what, and why could all be in either side." All of those words appeared halfway between the hill and the spiral.

"What about who?" Sherlock asked.

"Exactly," agreed the Doctor. Everything besides the orange word "WHO" dispersed and floated away into the air, leaving the word alone and slightly expanding in front of the Doctor. "Some thought that it was just another that fell in between, as people took up both space and time. They figured it was part of Tempospace because we all develop as people and part of Topospace because our consciousnesses were neurons in our mind. But that was wrong. It wasn't our consciousnesses that were made up by our brains, we didn't know where those came from. But they weren't in Topospace or into Tempospace, and nobody even considered that they were in the third major category."

"I thought you said there were two," Sherlock objected.

"I did. I skipped one."

"What's the third?"

"It's called Antispace, travel in the void, but anyway, that's not what's _important_!" As he said important the people on the street vanished and the sky flashed blue. Thunder clapped. Sherlock shivered.

"Alright, so, what about who?" Sherlock asked, reminding him of where he was.

"Oh, yes right," agreed the Doctors, "Who was by far the most major and controversial question, especially as some people began to think it had a category of its own."

"How could it?" Sherlock asked.

"They were real faithful types." The Doctor explained. The word WHO rose up and shrank as it was replaced by three featureless white people made of smoke. As the Doctor explained the theory, a loose gold strand began growing and running through each of their heads. "They believed that all living beings, or at least, all beings with a consciousness were linked and that that was a means of travel. Psychospace is the medium between the minds of all living things." The gold chain reached the final person's head and the white people and chain vanished and floated up into the sky.

"That's insane. Impossible, obviously," Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, of course it is, I agree," The Doctor said softly. A light of something not-so-sane passed behind his eyes and his fists tightened, "But when you've been trapped inside _anything_ for a little over four millennia it's a little hard to deny it's existence."

Sherlock shivered. The clear sky was now overcast as the Doctor continued.

"I didn't come into your mind just for sightseeing. You're the most clever person I've met in a very long time, and I'm thinking you can help me escape,"

Sherlock wasn't sure why he agreed, it was all totally insane, but he nodded before he knew what he was doing. "How do I get you out?"

"We'll have to escape some of the natives, first," The Doctor told him.

"The natives?" Sherlock asked, "In a world between minds?"

"Did I ever suggest it was uninhabited?" Sherlock cocked his head at this.

"How could there be creatures there?" he asked him.

"Have you ever heard voices inside your head?" The Doctor questioned. "Little people saying 'do it, don't do it'? Haven't you ever wondered why it's such a relatable phenomenon through all the cosmos?"

"Are you suggesting that the voice in everyone's head is the exact same being," Sherlock questioned incredulously, "That's even more impossible."

The Doctor shrugged. "I've seen them. And I'm guessing they don't want me to leave, and they won't let anything pull me through. Even the benign ones won't help me, it's very difficult to pass through dimensions"

"So I _can't_ pull you out of it?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Well, can I go in?" Sherlock asked. He tried to make it could like it would be helpful, but really he was dying to know what Psychospace was really like. The Doctor chuckled softly. The once lively building boarded their own windows up with wooden boards, the city becoming deserted by the second.

"No," he said, "You can't go in."

"Well, if I can't travel through Psychospace but the voices in my head can, _and_ they're not even individual to me, who exactly does that make me?" he asked. The Doctor smirked. The clouds loomed over thicker.

"Ah, yes the big question," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Something about his smile, the odd little glint in his eye made him look like he belonged in a mental asylum, which after a little over four centuries he may very well have. "Are we just our bodies," he continued slowly. He tapped his finger against his head, "Or the voices in our heads?" he leaned his head back ever so slightly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Now, Sherlock, I'm afraid there is something very very important you have forgotten to do."

Sherlock creased his eyebrows in confusion, trying to think of what he could have done wrong. "What?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," The Doctor said a little too calmly, "If my human biology is correct, it's really not wise of you to go too long without doing it."

"What is it, what have I forgotten to do?" Sherlock inquired harshly. The Doctor gave him that same, unnatural sort of smile. As he gently whispered the word it appeared behind him in toxic black smoke.

" _Breathe,"_ he whispered. In a split second, the black smoke rushed forward and enveloped him. All he could see was black, his eyes watered, his lungs ached, but finally, he woke up.

He sat rapidly up out of bed, his chest immediately feeling like like it was collapsing in on itself and his throat praying for air. He gasped loudly, talking in as much air as he could. He gasped and heaved and coughed for a few more seconds to try and get his body oxygenated again, wondering how long he had gone sleeping without breathing.

"Jesus, thank God," he heard someone beside him sigh. He found John standing at the side of his bed and looked up at him, wide-eyed, still breathing heavily.

"What the Hell was that?!" John asked in a panic, "I just came in because I found your gun in the living room and I figured I'd come in quietly and give it to you but I come in to see you aren't breathing! Thank God I had, I thought you had died! Do you have some sort of sleep apnea?!"

Sherlock coughed, looking up at him and trying to process his question. "Sleep apnea?" he panted, "No… no, I just wasn't breathing…" It occurred to him only now that seeing the Doctor may have harmful side effects.

"For how long?!" John demanded.

"I don't know," Sherlock confessed.

"Well, does this happen often?!"

"Not lately, but possibly much more so in the future!" Sherlock insisted. He then sent John stepping back as he hurried out of bed and to his dresser.

"So… you're fine now?" John assured.

"Yes!" Sherlock snapped back.

"Alright, alright!" John defended. He quickly turned and stepped out of Sherlock's room, leaving him to get dressed and ready. So he wasn't breathing in his sleep now? What did that mean?

Just a few moments later, before his coffee was even made, John saw Sherlock hurrying out the door. He creased his eyebrows at the flicker of a tailcoat leaving the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Out!" he called back. By that time, he was already out the door and John saw no point in calling after him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure why he wanted to go out. He wasn't exactly sure why he hailed a taxi and headed to Greenwich Park. But in what felt like just a few moments, he was already headed there.

It was a strange sort of life, looking forward to your nights. Sherlock never considered that one day the world of sleep would outweigh the world of consciousness. He always figured that sleep was just a necessity he could mentally skip, but now, he dug as hard as he could into his head for even the tiniest little details, nothing that would usually be important. Things he tuned out last time ravaged at his head. When exactly did the sky turn cloudy? What colors was the Doctor wearing? Why was that little police box the only inanimate object in color?

When. What. Why. Just like the Doctor said. Before he couldn't understand what separated who from all the other questions, but now he felt he could. The Doctor was now and here for when and where, he was there because he was trapped in psychospace, he was a man in his dreams, and he was there because he could easily enter his mind.

But _who_ was he?

Sherlock put this thought aside for another time and focused on what he was finding he had come out for. Psychospace, he thought. The idea that all conscious brains were linked. What a bizarre concept, impossible but God was it interesting. He had come out here to test it. He was sure it was pointless but he couldn't help himself.

A jogger was on the path across from him. She was brown haired and fair-skinned, sweating and a little heavy, clearly doing it in an attempt to lose weight. Other than that, Sherlock ignored all observations about her. That wasn't the focus.

He stared at her, thinking about her even though he didn't know who she was. _Break it down,_ he thought to himself, _Break down the wall. Your mind is not your own_. He shut his eyes, but there was still the park. He took a step forward. Or, not a step. Just a motion to bring him father across the plain. His body was left behind behind the duck pond and he hovered over the water, between each molecule of oxygen. The woman gave off something… some sort of force that didn't look like it was there. He wasn't sure how he sensed it. He tried to approach it, but the more he did so, the stronger it got. He was pushed away as though by a hot gust of wind, as a voice inside his mind shouted " _Don't!"_

His eyes flicked open. He hadn't moved. The jogger had stopped to give him a strange look and then kept going down the path.

His eyes shut again, and he left his body behind, recessing into his head. But there was still the park. Only now, perched just on top of the middle of the duck pond was the Doctor. The jogger was gone and everything flickered as though he was half asleep.

"We can't talk," The Doctor said briefly. His voice echoed and wavered like he was underwater.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"No one's ever been so focused before. You'll get hurt." he told him. His body flickered and swayed, too, like he was behind something giving off a strong heat. Sherlock began to feel a cold, gentle sort of pressure. Maybe that was the Doctor's energy.

"How will I get hurt?" Sherlock asked him. His voice sounded the same, like bubbles in the ocean.

"Last time you stopped breathing." The Doctor told him, making the world blue-ish as his eyes shot him a look of honest worry. Sherlock planned to speak but stopped when he found that the Doctor's already loose hair was bending and lifting casually upward, his clothes were lifting ever so slightly off his body, and, while he remained totally still in proportion to himself, his entire figure began to float upward.

"Why are you floating?" Sherlock asked, his voice getting harder to even hear as his ears began to ache.

"I'm not," the Doctor responded, his voice vanishing too. "You're sinking."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he discovered what was happening. The Doctor floated up and away out of sight, and Sherlock felt someone pulling hard on his clothes, tugging him upward. His chest ached as he felt himself crash against the hard ground. His hands ran through grass and he knew he was himself again. He desperately looked around, trying to piece together what had happened. Worried jogger asking him questions. Wet clothes. Aching lungs. Duck pond.

"Oh my god, are you okay?!" the jogger gasped above him, her face lined with worry. "I called 999, oh God, I-I'm sorry, I was never taught to-"

Sherlock opened his mouth but was only thrown to his side, exploding in thick, hacking coughs. He spat the leftover water from his mouth, but still, his breath was labored and painful. Again, how long had it been since he had been breathing? How long was he under there? He shivered violently, trying to calculate as he fell back down onto his back. The pressure on the lungs combined with the release of water… no, no he couldn't do it, not enough air, not enough… not enough.

Sherlock awoke in a white room and it didn't take him a long time to figure out what had happened. It didn't take him long based on the heart monitor, the white unisex dress, and the uncomfortable bed that he had found himself in a hospital. How long had it been, he wondered?

Although, it took another few moments to notice he wasn't, in fact, wet, which he logically would have been in this situation. And neither did his chest ache. He looked around. A single spider crawled out from the vent, along the wall for a little while, and then scurried under the door. Still a dream. It was getting harder and harder to tell lately.

Not actually feeling any real pain, he stood up and knew he had to find the Doctor. He wasn't sure exactly why the two had to talk. Something was important; maybe he really did want to help him. Maybe he was just interested in the Psychospace and that was all it was. Still, he had to find him. He was going to find him.

"Doctor?" he called. He looked around, waiting a moment. If he was still here, he was in the deep recesses of his mind. He'd have to look for him himself.

He took a step forward and placed his hand on the doorknob to exit the room, and then stopped. Something was strange about the door. It gave of that same pulsing sort of energy that jogger seemed to give off. For a second, he was almost afraid. And then, he stepped in.

Nothing was the same.

Every sense Sherlock knew and trusted became irrelevant, he couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he wasn't even aware of his own body's existence. He hovered as a sort of dot of nothingness in this bizarre, unexplained territory.

The best way to describe it was that it was indescribable. The human senses were irrelevant and unused here, and many people wouldn't be able to sense anything at all. I suppose the best way you could possibly explain it is to imagine yourself in a river in space. The river was more like a body of water as opposed to a single line, as it flowed any way it wanted to, and whenever it felt it should it spiraled away in a different direction, creating a strange sort of tide pool. In a much more complicated sort of sense, Sherlock was being swept along in this boundless, three-dimensional river with no ground beneath it. He could feel a sort of pulling from the tide pools with that same sort of warmth he had felt in the jogger and door. They were sort of different kinds of temperature differences, even though they were either hot or cold. Some were the heat of a fire on a winter day, some were the heat of a mid-day August, some were the heat of burning your hand on the stove. The ones that were cold had just as much variation, as some had the cold of snow, while others had the cold of an ice cube tray or a bowl of iced-cream. They each had a separated feel, even though they were all the same. Sherlock knew each of these tide pools must have been a human mind.

And, then, of course, there were the fish that inhabited the river. They were a lot like fish, actually, as although he couldn't see them he knew they raced past his head as they put a new sort of thought individually in his head. It was like when a car played music too loud, and you hear it down the street, then nice and loud when they're right next to you, and before it seems like any time has passed, they're already gone. Thoughts flashed in his head like fireworks as the creatures passed, some negative, some positive, some image-based, some word-based. What was strange was he'd thought them all before.

Of course, in a strange place like that, he could only marvel for so long. He probably should have assumed the creatures would attack.

Being attacked by a group of thought-inducing creatures was like having a panic attack on top of being told the best news of your life with a side of being showed some videos of people being murdered. Sherlock's mind exploded with various things as he knew they came after him, they could channel such powerful imagination that when they put the image of being bitten by a dog in his head he could really feel the bite. He tried to make for the door, but this wasn't his world and he couldn't see or find it. He had no idea how to fend them off so he just tried to tune them out as his own imagination tore him apart.

Then something happened in less time that Sherlock could recognize (as there was no time in this place at all). Briefly, a different sort of creature overwhelmed every single one of them, and a clear, shockingly vivid picture appeared inside his head like he was really seeing it. A huge, towering black city was enveloped in curtains of clouded orange, and surrounded by a glistening bubble. The hard, iron ground spiked up beneath it and he knew it must have been miles tall. Children in long red robes laughed. He could hear it.

Then, before he could tell what had happened, he had left that strange place and was heavily panting and on his back.

"What were you thinking?!" a voice somewhere above him demanded, "Are you insane?! Why would you go in there?! More importantly, _how_ did you get in there?"

Sherlock squinted up above him. A blurry figure came into his field of vision. Slowly, as he blinked, the Doctor came slowly into vision, his face lined with awe and anger. Sherlock looked around, running his hands through the grass beneath him. The same grass. He let his head go back and his eyes shut again. Dammit. Not the park again.

" _That_ was Psychospace?" Sherlock asked, his breathing still heavy as he carefully tried to sit up. He winced and sat back down, his head and eyes aching like he had looked at the bright screen of a computer for way too long. He laid back down and pulled his hands up to rub his eyes, but it didn't help.

"Don't try and think too hard," the Doctor warned, still clearly annoyed, "I'm surprised you're still alive at all." He hesitated, before rapidly explaining, "In a race, Robert came in right after Kenny, and Kenny came two places after Hannah, who was in second place. What place was Robert in?"

Sherlock moaned softly at the heat behind his eyes. "What?" he groaned.

"What place was Robert in?"

Sherlock muttered the details to himself as he ran the normally easy problem through his head. He should have gotten it in just a second or two, but his mind for some reason had trouble holding it all together and he had to solve it by counting and going through it manually. His head only ached more.

"Um, fifth, why-"

"Good, you're still functioning." The Doctor told him. He kneeled down beside him, taking a heavy breath. Sherlock opened his eyes. The Doctor was still a little blurry, but he could read what emotions were on his face. Disapproval, fear, obviously, and… was that hope?

"Now, Sherlock, you need to tell me," he said sternly, "How did you enter the psychospace?"

"I-I," Sherlock stuttered, shutting his eyes again, "In the hospital, this door, the… the duck pond,"

"Piece together your thought, then, talk."

Sherlock nodded. Slowly, he figured out exactly what he wanted to say and made a model of it in his mind, then spoke.

"I passed out after falling in the duck pond, then dreamt I was in a hospital. I went to find you and went through the door to leave my room, but it didn't go to the hospital, it went to Psychospace," he explained slowly. The Doctor's eyes widened and a silent sort of gasp escaped his lips.

"So you just… walked through a door. You… didn't even _want_ to get there?"

"No. Why would I?" questioned Sherlock. He creased his eyebrows at the Doctor's disbelieving expression and shaking hands.

"You're afraid," he observed, his mind slowly recovering, "Why?"

"Afraid?" The Doctor asked barely above a whisper. He let out a small, silent laugh, his mouth opening in a smile, "Not afraid, Sherlock!" he cried, "Why would I be afraid, this is the first hope I've had in 400 years!" He fell to his knees and scooped Sherlock off the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around him, looking like he could cry with joy.

"What did I do?" Sherlock asked, totally lost at this point. He grunted as the Doctor dropped him on the ground, but sat back up as he spoke.

"I've never met a human who could enter Psychospace if they begged, with all their mind, that they could find it, but you can enter without any drive at all! It was a mistake! You can get me out of here!" The Doctor cried.

He held on for another few moments before letting Sherlock fall to the ground again, sitting up with a wide smile on his face. Sherlock winced, hitting his head as he fell, but the Doctor didn't notice.

"Anyway," he began giddily, "Last time you were in your head this long, you got in some pretty thick danger, so you should probably wake up now."

Sherlock nodded, carefully sitting up. "Yes, of course," he responded. He shut his eyes hard, seeing the blackish red behind his eyes. _Wake up,_ he told himself simply. But this time, he didn't feel the usual pulse he felt when he tried to wake up in the past. Was he awake? It didn't feel like it. _Wake up!_ He told himself again. Still, he felt nothing. Maybe it was just subtle. He opened his eyes.

Still just the park, as vivid as ever. Although this time when he opened his eyes, it was a little different. A little bit… more solid, more sure. Almost thicker, as though you were standing over a pot of hot boiling water and you could feel the water rising and see the air wavering, but the temperature hadn't changed. He looked at the Doctor, confused.

"What's going on?" he asked him. He ran his hands through the grass again and could feel every strand. "Am… I awake now?"

The Doctor pulled himself up to his knees and gave him a confused look. Sherlock's view distorted every so slightly, making the Doctor look top heavy and intimidating as he towered over him. He backed away. It was like being on too many drugs. The colors wavered and the sound warped; something was wrong.

"Wh-what's happening?" Sherlock demanded, irrationally scared. The Doctor leaned in and took both sides of his face looking intensely into his eyes. Even in this strange, warped dream he could see his eyes fill with dread and fear.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have I done?" he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson sat alone in the stark white room. Well, alone is subjective. Sherlock laid beside him, hooked up to machines and sleeping on the hospital bed, but he hadn't spoken since the duck pond incident. He hadn't moved, he hadn't done anything. John had rushed over as soon as they called him about the news. Sherlock didn't really have anyone else. Not even his parents or Mycroft came. But he did.

He peered nervously at the body on the table. He looked like he was sleeping. They all did, really. Maybe death is like sleeping. But then, of course, your chest stops moving and your heart stops beating, which wouldn't happen. It couldn't. Sherlock had been through so much. Fallen off a ten story building, had guns pointed at his head, been in a room with a cereal killer and almost taken poison, how could it be the goddamned duck pond at the park that killed him. It couldn't, that's how. He'd wake up.

John stood up with a silent gasp as one of the nurses came back in. He didn't notice anything about his face, he didn't want to read his emotion. There would be one spurt of news, like ripping off a band-aid, he couldn't build the dread.

"Dr. Watson," the nurse greeted, holding a clipboard in his hand. "You are Mr. Holmes'…"

"We um, we share a flat, I help him on cases," John told him. The nurse ignored the fact that he completely avoided the question.

"Well, Dr. Watson," the man said, "There's good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?"

"I'll take the bad, please," Watson said, coolly. He straightened his back, the way he had when he expected machine gun fire.

"Well…" the nurse began, "The oxygen was cut off from his brain for a severely long amount of time. As you are a doctor, I'm sure you can conclude what that means. In his current state, there is no promise he will live at all, and even if he does there's no promise he will ever actually leave the machines and regain consciousness."

For a few seconds John didn't respond. He wanted to scream at Sherlock, scream at the nurse, get angry at someone, but what was the point? So slowly, he took in a deep breath and nodded. At least there was still good news.

"And the good news?" he asked, trying not to get his hopes up.

"The good news is that there is also every and any chance that he will wake up in the near future. He may be disoriented and a little unlike himself, but an injury like this is something you can heal from with a few weeks of rehabilitation. There is a fairly good chance that he'll be awake again within the month, maybe even the week."

John slowly nodded again, looking down at the ground. That was something. He swallowed and looked up at the nurse again.

"Alright, thank you," he said. The nurse took it as a request to leave, and he was right to do such. He nodded and exited the room. John peered over at Sherlock. Like the tide rising, his hope slowly grew and he became more sure of himself. He would be fine. He was Sherlock. Comatose is a state of the mind, and John knew if anyone had a powerful enough mind to get out of it, it was Sherlock.

"You had better get out of there, you hear me?" John insisted. "You find the exit to your mind palace, I know you of all people can find it if you really try," he stopped for a moment, and then continued, "You wake up, Sherlock."

"I'm what?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm sorry!" The Doctor shouted back for about the thousandth time. "When you went into psychospace it put you into a state of comatose, I didn't know it would happen." Sherlock sighed heavily, trying to get his thoughts together. Well, priority one was wake up. He certainly had no intention of spending the rest of his life in a dream world. He thought for a moment. What could you do in a dream that would wake you up in reality?

Then it came to him: Nightmares.

Finally, he looked up at the Doctor and said, "I know what to do."

The plan was fairly basic. Sherlock was in control of his world, so he would just resurface the nearest bad memory or relive the most recent bad dream and go through with it until he inevitably died. Or, at least, died in the dream, waking up from the coma in real life. His mind was vivid, and he was sure the dream would work.

"You're sure about this?" The Doctor asked, now sat down and nervously tapping his hand against his knee. "I mean… what if you just… die?"

"I can't die, not in a dream. I'll be fine. I just have to get a hold of a good nightmare," he insisted. "Now just… follow my lead."

Sherlock shut his eyes. A sense of dream filled his heart as he dived down into the thick recesses of his brain, the things that he kept away from his conscious mind. He hated going down into these murky, ice-cold memories but this was a case in which he had to. Memories floated past him like bubbles, exploding painfully on impact. Old, frightening memories, repeated childhood dreams. Monsters and demons and the headlights of oncoming traffic. But his heart sank a little as he found the best and worst one. Ah, yes. What else could he use?

He opened his eyes again. Immediately, every part of the scenery had changed. He could smell the slick oil smells of the most populated and city-like parts of London, feel that certain pattern of wind blowing through his hair. Feel that certain angle on which he stood on the rooftop, feel at exactly what point his feet hung off. He peered out over the city as he heard the words on replay.

" _Sherlock?"_

" _Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop,"_ He could hear the voice and the source of it from his own mouth, but his lips weren't moving. How he wanted to change how it played out… but it was just a re-run. He listened, his heart sinking lower and lower into his chest. He could see, even so far down below, the fear and even guilt in John's eyes, always thinking somehow that everything I did was his fault.

" _Oh, God."_

" _I… I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."_

" _What's going on?"_

Just a dream, just a dream, Sherlock repeatedly reminded himself. His chest ached and he winced to block it out. Nothing but a nightmare.

" _An apology. It's all true."_

" _What?"_

" _Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

" _Why are you saying this?"_

" _I'm a fake."_

" _Sherlock…"_

Sherlock swallowed as he heard the break in his own voice. " _The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell LeStrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

" _Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up! The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"  
_ " _Nobody could be that clever."_

" _You could."_

"Enough!" Sherlock insisted on an impulse. Each word that was said was like a bullet to the heart, no more. The voices stopped. He sighed and swallowed the tears that were surfacing in his throat, looking straight forward. "Just skip to the fall…" he muttered.

Some subconscious part of his mind obeyed he could feel himself leaning forward. It was his own body, controlled by someone else, by the imprint of the memory. Like being tied to a sinking ship, his body was slowly dropped forward.

It was funny how the little things could make you so nostalgic. He had never considered how exactly the same the fall would be. He remembered the two or three somethings in the air that hit his face as he fell, he remembered the certain ways he turned, the last few things he saw. He even remembered his last thought being a curiosity as to if Ms. Hudson would still make tea everyday. It seemed so insignificant, but it was so important.

But as he approached the ground, there was no other body, there was no backup plan. This time, he just kept falling. The ground got steadily closer, and he began to doubt himself. He opened his mouth to tell the Doctor he didn't think it was working. But he was interrupted when he slammed into the ground.

Somebody cried his name.

He wasn't sure if it was John or the Doctor.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, Sherlock!" The Doctor exclaimed, appearing beside him and falling to his knees. His hands shook as he scooped Sherlock up in his arms, looking despondently into his blank face.

"Oh, Sherlock," he whispered softly, "What have I done?"

John took a moment or two to place what had changed, but once he had, his heart stopped. The heart monitor, which was steadily beeping before, was letting out a long monotone hum as though it were screaming a warning. He stood up rapidly. The sound of the flatlining heart monitor tempted him to get the paddles himself, but he wasn't the doctor.

"Someone, help please!" he called loudly. Immediately the room was filled with people and chaos, and like a terrible storm, John found him pushed out of the room. A nurse stood in front of him, the same one as before.

"What's happening, why is that happening?!" he shouted frantically.

"Please, stay calm sir, we can't allow you within the room just now-"

" _Tell me what is happening to Sherlock!"_

The Doctor looked around hopelessly as the world around him began to deteriorate and fall away, leaving nothing but white behind it. The people's faces were blank, any writing was gone, the faraway buildings were vanishing. Even the sky was falling into nothingness, square by square, leaving nothing but a screen of white behind it. The Doctor knew that Sherlock's mind was already failing.

"No, no please," he whimpered. He liked to believe that he didn't cry much, but he couldn't help but break down into hysterics. "No, no," he kept saying, tears streaming from his eyes, "You can't do this to me, please," he whimpered, "I've been here for so long, so long Sherlock, you were the one, please, please you can't die!" he glanced hysterically around. The ground began to fall away, the sky was nearly gone, every building beside the one he jumped off of and the two beside it were gone.

"I am a doctor, tell me what is happening to him!" John screamed at the nurse.

"We don't know anything yet, we'll just have to see," the nurse responded calmly.

"No, he was stable just a few seconds ago, there is no reason that he would just stop like this!"  
The nurse started talking about how oxygen loss can affect certain things, but John just peered at the door to the room, hearing again and again the call of clear. His heart still hadn't restarted. How long could he wait?

The Doctor wiped the tears from his eyes. _He can't die. He can't._ The Doctor thought this again and again to himself. _I've been here so long, I can't be here any longer._

The Doctor swallowed. There was one thing he could do to save him. He felt dirty and cruel just thinking about it, but it wasn't his fault, he had to get out of here.

He just… he had to get out of here.

So, as the ground around him fell away and the sky completely vanished, he scooped Sherlock up in his arms and started running towards the door to the huge building, the one he fell off of. The two buildings beside it had already faded off into the distance. The ground in front of him was vanishing, and it fell away just as he stepped on it. Frantically, he climbed up the last few squares of pavement. He shut his eyes, wishing hard, and then sprinted through the door.

"-And when that part of the brain goes without oxygen for so long, it can-" the nurse continued explaining.

"Shut up a minute," John snapped. He was slightly shorter than the nurse, so he had to stand on his toes to try and see through the window on the door, even though it was shaded out anyway. A dreadful silence hovered over the room. The nurses inside had stopped calling clear… that could mean one of two things.

"Is he…" John asked slowly, his chest tightening. After a moment, another doctor stepped out with a grave look on her face.

"He's stable," she said finally. John let out a long sigh, only now feeling how hard his pulse was beating on his neck and wrists. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get his heart rate to slow. So he was alive. But as he looked up, he could tell that something was still wrong. The other nurse, who had just come out of the room nodded coldly at the one who was with John, indicating something that John didn't know.

"Please come in, doctor," she requested. Unable to fight or shout anymore, John watched anxiously as both nurses went back in through the door.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Sherlock…"_

A gentle voice in the dark. It was barely noticeable at first, like those 'what's different in the pictures' puzzles. But slowly, as it was repeated like a gentle breeze, Sherlock could be sure he was hearing it.

" _Sherlock… Sherlock…"_

Once he was sure he could hear the words, he could notice that his name was only part of it. More words came.

" _Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I couldn't do it anymore, Sherlock, I couldn't do it anymore. It's been so long, Sherlock, 4000 years is so long. You were the one, Sherlock. It had to be you, Sherlock. Oh, God, I'm so selfish, what have I done? What have I become, Sherlock?"_

Sherlock only listened, soon able to figure out that all that he heard before was the repeated saying of his name, but he guessed this was the stuff in between. Slowly, his vision returned. It was barely any sort of difference at all, as his eyes were closed, but the steady black he saw before slowly went into that sort of flickering red pattern you see behind your eyelids. He wasn't sure if he was technically able to move, but the very idea of opening his eyes felt like running a marathon up a mountain right now. So he just listened on.

" _I've been here so long… So, so long. I can't even remember my real name anymore. I can't remember why or when I chose the Doctor. Who was I? Did I have a home? Is anyone waiting for me back there? I wonder if they're still waiting… I wonder, how long would someone wait for me? But wouldn't that depend on who I was? Who was I at all? Was I a good person? And if I was… am I still?"_ there was a pause, " _Then again, how could I ask you that and expect the answer I want? Oh, God Sherlock, I'm so sorry. It never really occurred to me that even if I saved you you may not want to help me but… oh, God, please,"_ his voice began to break, " _I am going insane, I don't know what the real world looks like, everything's just scribbles, please, I'm out of my mind! For all I know I'm to the point where I'm psychotic, hallucinating, there is no way to know what's real! Nothing is real, nothing is tangible! I haven't touched anything for 4000 years, oh god, do you know what that feels like?!"_ There was a long silence. Sherlock couldn't tell if he was crying or not.

" _Please… just tell me you're alive…"_

Sherlock couldn't just sit like this any longer. He considered what the easiest thing to do would be, trying to figure out what was around him. He could feel something warm on top of his own hand. The Doctor's hand… perfect. He built up his energy, and with an internal wince, he just barely twitched his finger, hoping the Doctor would feel it. Every movement felt like it would break his bones.

The Doctor gasped, quickly pulling up his hand.

"Oh, thank God!" he cried. Sherlock did nothing, just moving his hand seeming to take all the energy out of him. What happened to him?

"Alright, Sherlock, I suppose you'll be wanting an explanation," The Doctor began above him, dread filling his voice. "Well… for starters, the nightmare therapy didn't work. You were hurt… you were dying when you hit the ground. In a way, your conscious mind was poisoning your automatic functions. You thought you were dead, you thought you had fallen, therefore your body didn't argue. Your heart had stopped. Your brain was dying… So I-" he cut himself off, swallowing. Sherlock waited in anticipation, "I took you into the Psychospace. We're in someone else's mind right now, but they can't hear or feel us. I can keep myself hidden pretty well. You'll live, your natural functions like heartbeat and breathing are different from your mind, which is you. Those are doing fine back in your body. But the only downside… Oh God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"What's happening to him?" John asked the nurse sharply, his voice dangerously soft.

"He's alive," the nurse replied, "His heart rate and breathing are normal."

"But?" asked John hearing the tone in his voice.

"But… due to some unknown internal stimuli, Mr. Holmes has stopped showing signs of any sort of consciousness. We're not sure whether this caused the heart attack or it it was the other way around, but we know that his mind is gone for all important purposes. In short, Dr. Watson, he's not going to wake up."

John was silent for a good long time. There was no way to process what he was being told. Finally, he tucked his thumbs in his pockets.

"No, that can't be right," he said softly.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but-"

"Let me see him," he insisted softly, nodding towards the door.

"He won't be able to hear you," The nurse reminded him.

"Just let me see him." After a moment, the nurse complied, stepping away from the door and letting John step inside. At this point, the room was empty. Aside from Sherlock, lying on the hospital bed. Did that still count as empty?

Slowly, he sat down beside Sherlock. He looked at the ground and began to speak.

Sherlock could hardly keep track of one voice, but two was becoming chaotic. It was like a radio that was stuck switching between two stations. On top of the Doctor talking, there was a different voice, too. Who was it? What was it saying?

He only listened some more.

" _Hey, I know I had no right, I just, I had no way of saving you and-"_

" _Listen to me, Sherlock."_

" _I mean, it was selfish, yeah… but what else was I supposed to do?"_

" _I know you can hear me."_

" _I'm not being rhetorical, please tell me, what am I supposed to do, I am… I'm so far lost…"_

" _The doctors are telling me you're not going to wake up,"_

" _I can't even tell if I'm dead or alive anymore…"_

" _But quite honestly, I think that's a load of bullshit."_

" _If I am alive, I'm dying. I've been dying for so long."_

" _You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, you always wake up."_

" _I need you, please, I can't be alone anymore."_

" _You always bounce back, it's what you do."  
_ " _If not for help, then just for company, please, just someone…"_

" _Trust me, I know what's likely and what isn't."_

" _Just someone to compare myself to, so I can remind myself who I am."_

" _I'm a doctor."_

" _I'm not a Doctor."_

Both of them were silent for a moment, heaving a heavy sigh at exactly the same time. By now, he knew the other voice. John. He still believed in him.

" _If you were anyone else, I'd pull the plug…"_

" _But I can save you, I can be with you. I've been here a long time, I can keep you safe."_

" _I'm not going to give up on you, not after all this,"_

" _I've never met someone like you before. You're just so…"_

" _Stubborn. That's what you are. And clever, which is a combination that can get you anything you want. So you better keep fighting, you smart-ass. I can't wait forever."_

" _I'll be here forever. I'll never give up on you. There's so much to explore, maybe with someone it'll be a little more…"_

" _Time is something we're short on. They can't keep you in here forever. So, um, good luck. And... just wake up, will you? I don't want any dramatic entrances."_

There was another short break, before both of the voices in unison told him,

" _I'll stay here with you. I promise."_

Finally, Sherlock pulled his eyes open.

He stared up at the sky, the sun blazing into his eyes. The brilliant blue domed around him as the clouds and birds passed through his vision like passing fish in a pond. He groaned, letting his head fall to the side. Every part of him ached; it was like the very weight of the air on top of him was enough to crush his bones.

"Oh, good, you're awake! Finally!" Sherlock looked around for the source of the voice. He looked to the left. Then, back to the right. The Doctor sat beside him, only now having appeared. He grinned, leaning in to talk to him.

"How you doing, Sher? Anything bruised, anything broken?" he asked cheerily.

Sherlock groaned again, "Try everything," he responded, "What the Hell happened?"

A look of sudden shame crossed the Doctor's face. "I… told you, did you not hear-"  
"I heard," Sherlock said coldly. The Doctor shrank back. "I just mean why do I feel like I've been run over by a steamroller?"

"Ah, right, that," The Doctor responded, immediately bouncing back to his cheerful self. "Your body is under the impression that you just fell off a very tall building. You're alright, though. Just try and focus and you can get rid of the pain on your own."

Sherlock looked down, understanding. The more he thought about it, the more he found the pain was very like it was in a dream. It was his mind telling him he was in pain, not real pain itself. If he tried hard enough, he could corner it down into numbers and codes and re-write it, cancel it out. Individually, he did this with every muscle and bone in his body until he felt nothing at all. It was still fading when he carefully sat up.

"So, I'm here forever?" Sherlock asked bluntly. The Doctor swallowed, flinching just a little bit.

"You did hear me then?" he mumbled, a little disappointed.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock hissed. The Doctor winced as though he were being struck, but let him continue. "According to John, I'm never going to wake up! How exactly is that a step up from being dead?! What did you think it would achieve to put me in an eternal Hell?!"

The Doctor turned away, his fists clenching. "Don't you think… I feel bad enough…?" The Doctor whispered.

"I think you're delusional!" Sherlock responded, "Look at yourself, you're in no condition to make decisions! You're nothing but a lonely child!"

"I know, I know, please, I know!" The Doctor insisted, raising his hands in defense. "But I had to choose something, I didn't know what to do!" his body slumped with desperation, "Please, if anything this just proves my point! You're right, I'm completely mad, and I need someone!"

"Then let me ask you your own question: How could you ask me that and expect the answer you want? You just dragged me down into your own personal Hell just so I could suffer with you, what would I do for you anymore?"

The Doctor looked up, his face lining with fear and awe as he leaned back onto his hands. He opened his mouth to answer, but had no real reason. "Please-" he managed out.

"Please isn't an answer." Sherlock snapped.

The Doctor looked at him for a long time in desperation before he looked away and shook his head. There was nothing. With shaky hands he pulled his legs up into his chest, his breath getting heavy and ridden with tears as he just stared at the ground.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock responded harshly. By now, he had entirely gotten rid of his self-generated pain and could easily stand right up, which he quickly did. He passed right by the Doctor, looking around at where he was. It was what appeared to be a playground, with wood-chips beneath him and a small play castle and swing set in the area. Beyond that, there was a long field, which was cut off by trees. There were children on the playground, but they were only half there, with blurred out faces and silent voices.

"Sherlock, please, you can't do this!" The Doctor shouted from behind him, his teeth clenched.

"I am now," Sherlock responded, frighteningly casually.

"I can't do this anymore!" The Doctor insisted, tears beginning to come down his face. He spoke slowly like he was having trouble forming the words in his mind, his capacity just a little slower that usual.

"You've said!" Sherlock responded.

"Sherlock, for god's sake have some empathy!" The Doctor pleaded, "I have been here for so long and there is no way out," he spoke through clenched teeth and shook like a jackhammer, each word slow and enunciated. "I can't even die. I've tried that too, in case you're wondering, but whoever trapped me here was so, so thorough. I'm insane. Look at me, listen to me, I know you can see… you can see…" he cut himself off.

Sherlock glanced at the Doctor over his shoulder, fear welling up in his heart. Was this what he would become?

"I can see what?" he finally asked.

"What I am!" The Doctor said, suddenly shouting and turning around. In a flash, he jumped up onto his feet. Sherlock gasped as the Doctor's hand tightened around his collar, so tight his knuckles went white.

"I meant it when I said I didn't know who I was! I can't know anymore! The mirrors are lies, the cameras are lies, I've seen a hundred pictures of myself and they're all of different people!" Hysterically, he threw Sherlock to the ground. Even though he knew the pain was in his head, it hurt. The Doctor leaned over putting his hands on his knees. "Look at me, Sherlock! Am I a monster!? Am I a freak?! Has this world of dreams finally turned me into the nightmares that kept me up at night?! Well?! Answer me!"

Sherlock waited a good long moment, propping himself up on his elbow and staring at the Doctor. Slowly, he reached into his coat and before reaching into his pocket, he let out a long breath and wished with all his mind. The Doctor could create things in other people's minds, there was no reason that he wouldn't be able to. He wished as hard as he could, before reaching in and withdrawing what he needed.

He looked at it as it emerged from his coat. It was a small pink case, that was about an inch wide and the length of his palm. Carefully he opened it up. On the bottom was a container of blush, which he couldn't explain, but on the top was what he needed. He looked at the perfectly clear mirror, testing its accuracy. Yes, he recognized every one of his features. He turned his eyes to the Doctor and warily reached forward, handing him the mirror.

The Doctor backed away, gingerly taking the mirror from his hand like it was a priceless artifact. For a long time, he just stared at it, sitting in his two carefully cupped hands. After at least a solid minute, he fell softly to his knees, the tensity in his body wilting.

"I know that face…" he whispered, brushing his hand along his cheek.

Silently, Sherlock pulled himself back up to his feet and brushed off his trench coat nonchalantly. He glanced a look at the Doctor. A pitiful sight, really, but if he pitied him at all it didn't show. "Of course you do," he said factually, "It's yours." His face remained emotionless as he reached out a hand to help the Doctor up. The Doctor looked up at his extended hand, swaying slightly on his knees and squinting at it as though he wasn't exactly sure what it was or why it was there. It was as though he had been drugged or just woken up from a very long sleep; disoriented. Eventually, though, he took his hand and stood back up. He was still a little shaky, but seemed fairly fine. He rubbed one arm with his hand, looking away in shame.

"Now, listen here," Sherlock said. His voice was softer now, almost as though he were trying to be comforting, "I don't know how we're going to out, but you're not going to get anywhere by having a mental breakdown. I understand that 4000 years is a long time and you are clearly mentally unstable. But I have been known to solve puzzles, and if anyone can get you out of here, I'm fairly sure it's me."

The Doctor's eyes flicked up to Sherlock's. "You'll help me then?" he asked.

"I'm not promising anything. But we need each other to get out of here, I know that. And I need to get out of here, too."

The Doctor nodded, his smile returning strangely fast. Sherlock ignored it, even when he found it a little unnerving.

"Alright, so where do we start?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, let's sort out the details," The Doctor began, "You can't go back because if you try, your body will be under the impression that you're dying and begin to die again. I can't go back because even when I find my mind, I'm locked out. A field of energy pushed me away."

"Any other details?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, the natives, of course." The Doctor added.

"Yes, I took those into account." The Doctor waited as Sherlock hesitated for a long, long moment, thirty seconds at least, thinking, planning. He could work with that, he thought. Calculations and exceptions ran through his head at a million miles per hour.

"I think I have something," he said finally, "But I can't guarantee anything."

"But it _could_ work?" The Doctor asked hopefully

"If I understand the situation correctly."

The Doctor grinned that grin that made him look a little less than sane, which clearly, he must have been. "Well, Sherlock Holmes," he said, "Feel free to explain."

((Sorry it's taken me so long to post, guys. You know how summer works, your mind gets distracted. Either way, tell me which one I should work on more in a review and keep your eyes open Star Trek fans! I recently got enveloped in that fandom and figured it was time I started writing!))


	6. Chapter 6

For how long the Doctor had been inside Psychospace, he found it an annoyingly simple idea. Still though, he wasn't to blame; no human had ever been able to enter Psychospace before, Sherlock really was his key hope.

Sherlock built himself up, preparing for the mental bombardment of Psychospace. He cleared his mind, leaving a white canvas that he painted with one word: Doctor. He knew, thinking about anything else could cost him both his and the Doctor's life once they entered Psychospace. No, that wasn't it. He couldn't lose his life, he would lose his consciousness, which, in his opinion was so much worse. It was one thing to die a death with dignity, or even without, nothing wrong with that, but he couldn't imagine still being alive without his greatest asset: his mind. Without it, he was nothing. Without it, he had no desire to be alive at all.

The Doctor stared the the ground. It had gotten easy for him to enter Psychospace, after all these years. Gently, he just took in a breath and imagine what it was like, desired to enter the space, shut his eyes, and breathed back out. When he opened his eyes, a stark white door stood just before him and Sherlock. The both of them puffed out their chests, preparing to go in.

"Let's go, shall we?" Sherlock asked, "No time to waste." So, without waiting another moment, he walked forward and stepped through.

Sherlock took a moment to adjust to the normal, unsensible air of Psychospace. The Doctor was just beside him in a way, mentally, but no one was really beside each other here. Again, no space. But the Doctor was thinking about him, thinking his name over and over, and that made him close. Sherlock could feel as the natives approached. He knew what he had to do.

He cleared his mind, filling it with the Doctor and the Doctor alone. His mind, his body, all he knew about him. He thought about all he was, from the first time he knew him. The thoughts bombarded him, but stubbornly he thought about only him. He knew that he was getting closer to the Doctor's mind, where he needed to go. He could feel, in a way, the Doctor's presence surround him, and he could hear voices. It made no sense, they weren't a dialogue, just random sentences, and stranger still they were all different voices but Sherlock was convinced they were all the Doctor. They came closer to the Doctor's mind and it grew harder to pull him along behind him. It was like thinking too hard on a problem and hurting your head. The natives bombarded him like bullets.

The image of the red planet, whatever it was, was more vivid than ever, and voices spoke in an echoey tone, a thousand voices, all the voice of the doctor.

" _Our destiny is in the stars, let's go and search for it."_

" _While you have been merely content to observe the evil in this galaxy, I have been fighting against it!"_

" _A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting,"_

" _There's no point in being a grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes!"_

The pull grew stronger, Sherlock felt like he was being stretched like a rubber band that was soon to snap. The Doctor could hardly get close to his own mind without being pushed away, but Sherlock was slowly but surely dragging him in. The voices continued in a constant bombardment, that was, in a way, comforting.

" _For some people, small, beautiful events are what life is all about."_

" _Small though it is, the human brain can be quite effective."_

" _Time will tell, always does."_

" _I love humans. Always seeing patterns in things that aren't there."_

" _Great men are forged in fire, it is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."_

" _Before I go, I just wanted to tell you that you were fantastic."_

" _Some people live more in twenty years than others do in eighty."_

" _We're all stories in the end."_

As the last voice spoke and just as Sherlock feared he'd die right there, he and the Doctor were sucked into his own tidepool and everything went black. The last thing Sherlock remembered knowing was the final voice that spoke.

Darkness. It doesn't really occur to you that you can't see it in a dream. Of course, you can't truly see anything, only the backs of your eyelids while numbers and codes run through your head telling our to see different things. If you focus hard enough, you can almost read it like a transcript.

But even colors in a dream are fuzzy and lost just after waking up. There is no light. If something is there, it simply exists, and if it is not, there is only black. There is nothing hidden behind that iconic, unidentifiable curtain of black that can barely just be seen by its outline. There is never that gray haze leaving the monsters to crawl in the near-black. There is light, and there is black. There is not darkness.

Which may very well be the reason the Doctor could barely recognize it when that was what he saw. He looked around, just barely to make out the arching shapes in the distance, just barely a different color than the air around him. The air was shaded in by pencil, a rough sketch without color. Creatures dances and twirled behind the curtain of black. Not real, creatures, of course, only creatures of darkness. Spots and stars flickered like planets before his tired eyes. He peered into the dark, realizing what he was seeing, barely able to recognize it anymore.

He sighed softly in awe. He was in a chair, for the first time he could feel it. He wrapped his hands tight around the armrests, rectangular and made of metal. He could feel exactly where they were in space, each molecule remaining and precise, its mind made up on its texture and temperature and wetness and _feel._ For the first time in so long, it was solid. The Doctor ran his hands along the metal armrests, finding that each time he felt a part he'd felt before it was exactly the same, a perfect structure in space.

He laughed. At first a small, intuitive laugh, more of a sigh, but in feeling something, anything, everything, the air gently against his skin, the chair against his back, his laughter grew. He could hear, he could see, he could feel, time was fluid. Topospace, Tempospace, back again! He laughed not because it was funny just because it was over. He was aware that by now he must have sounded and been completely mad, but he couldn't help as it poured from his lips like lava from a volcano. He could hear it, too. He was breathing and hearing, he could count every breath he took, every hair on his head and it would be constant and remaining. He could feel where he was in space without even moving, aware of himself, aware of his own solidity. Oh, how he had waited for this… at long, long last…

He was awake.

"Doctor?" a voice spoke. It was… he couldn't say what it was, he hadn't needed many adjectives in so long. Let's see… feminine, Scottish… yes, he was fairly sure of those. He didn't answer her, he couldn't see much of her besides an outline.

"Some eternal torment," the girl mumbled, "What's so funny?" she asked. The Doctor didn't answer, laughter still coming from his lips. Awake. Alive. Awake. Alive. The words ran through his head, one by one, orbiting each other inside his mind.

"D-Doctor?" the girl asked, a worry that was almost fear rising in her voice.

"Doctor, what are you…" another voice spoke up, a male voice with a British accent, "Doctor, you're acting weird."

"Oh my God, it worked," The Doctor gasped collapsing back in his seat, his laughter finally stopping, "I made it… I made it… I made it…" he whispered to himself.

"Made it… to what?" Amy asked nervously.

"Hold on, I think this might be the light," the man said. The Doctor hissed, his eyes burning as the bright light shone into them. He shut his eyes instantly. Real light. It had been so long since he'd seen it. Slowly he opened his eyes.

It was a TARDIS. Perfect, detailed, sensical, solid. It was _his_ TARDIS.

He let out a heavy sigh, moving from his hysterical sense of happiness to a gentle warm kind that settled right into his chest. It was over. It was over.

"Doctor, what's wrong?" the girl asked. He carefully stood. His muscles ached with sleep, but he was at least able to stand and walk over to his console, leaning over it and staring into it.

"Oh, nothing's wrong," he whispered passingly. He lowered his voice and touched his hand against the center of the console. "Oh, I missed you girl. I'm sorry I was gone so long. I didn't mean to get stuck there, really,"

"Doctor, what are you going on about?!" the girl insisted, taking a step back. "You were only gone for like, five minutes."

The smile fell from the Doctor's face and the happiness drained from his chest like a drain had been pulled. His face filled with anger and confusion as he whipped around in a split second.

"Five minutes?" he whispered dangerously, taking another step towards the girl.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" she asked, shrinking away.

"What did you just say?"

"Hey, back off her!" The man said, taking a few steps closer.

"Doctor, you're scaring me!" The girl cried. He ignored her.

"How… the Hell… could it have been five minutes?!" he shouted at the top of lungs, and she gasped as he raised his hand to strike her. In a split second, Rory slipped in, caught his hand, and punched him so hard he fell to the floor and all he saw was black.

The Doctor pulled his eyes open. The first thing he felt was panic, because what if he was back and that before was just a more vivid dream than he'd ever felt before? He was ready to jump to his feet, but found that a ring of metal was wrapped around his hand and was chained to the railing on the outside of his TARDIS. Same place, still awake. He sighed in relief. Still, though, he pulled against the chain, wondering why he was chained up at all.

He smelled something. Was that… yes, it was… tea. He looked down on the ground to see a hot, steaming cup of tea. He looked around to see who was around and found that the girl from before - now he knew her name, Amy, he thought - was eyeing him suspiciously, crinkled up against the console of the TARDIS, as far from him as she could be while still being in conversational range. She was practically crushed against the console, her fists clenched, her legs curled in.

"I made you some tea," she said fearfully, her voice barely over a whisper, "It sort of seemed like a British thing to make some tea… I mean, not that you're really British, but you have a British accent so I sort of just figured…" she trailed off, then began again, "Please tell me what's going on, Doctor. What's happened?"

The Doctor didn't answer at first. Oh god. Where to start? Before he was able to answer hers, he knew he had to ask a question of his own.

"You're Amy, right?" he checked, "We traveled?"

Her eyes creased with concern, "Yes, of course, don't tell me you've forgotten," she said hopefully.

"Well, I suppose I didn't, did I?"

There was a pause before she spoke again. "Why did me saying five minutes make you so angry?" she asked. The Doctor sighed.

"Have you ever been dreaming and the dream seems so long, you wonder how you haven't been sleeping for ages?" he asked.

"Yeah, why?" she asked.

"Well… because…" a chill ran down Amy's spine as a sort of anger that a sane man simply couldn't achieve subtlely crossed the Doctor's face. "I have been dreaming for more than five minutes."

The room felt like it got just a little bit colder and Amy squeezed in tighter. "How long?" she asked.

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but somehow felt he couldn't say it aloud at all. "Take a guess," he said finally.

"A week?" she asked. No response. "A month?" he shook his head, "A year?" he shook his head again. Her eyebrows raised.

"Doctor-" she said.

"Keep guessing," he insisted. For some reason, he had his mind set one somebody in the real world hearing the truth. She shivered.

"Two years?" no response. "Five years? Ten?" her face fell further and further with desperation the more she guessed, horror sinking deeper and deeper into her bones like rain. "Fifteen? Twenty? Oh… Jesus Christ… Fifty, fifty years. It can't be more than that!"

"You're still pretty far," The Doctor whispered, slightly smiling just because of her somehow charming ignorance.

"A… a hundred years!" she said, her voice cracking, "And I won't believe that it could be any more than that! That's just… impossible! It's less than that isn't it Doctor?" The Doctor's smile faded. He gave no response. "Isn't it Doctor?"

Slowly, he shook his head. "No, Amy, it's… it's not…"

She let out a shaky breath. "Well then just tell me, I'm not playing this guessing game with you anymore!" she insisted. The Doctor tried to speak, but he couldn't even say it. It was too long, it was too large a burden. He shook his head. "I… I can't… keep going up," he requested.

Amy swallowed again, tears starting to surface in her eyes. "200? 300?" The Doctor didn't hint that she was even close, and tears began to run down her face, "Please Doctor, just tell me, i can't… I can't guess it!"  
The Doctor gave a heavy sigh, saying each word slowly as he stared down at the steaming cup of tea.

"Four… thousand… years…"

Amy gasped, horrified, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth. Immediately she broke down, her shoulders shaking with sobs. "Jesus Christ!" she shrieked in horror. How could she have let that happen?! How could it have happened at all?!  
Rory ran over from around the console, hearing his wife shout, "What's going on?!" he demanded. Amy ignored him, springing up from her position and running over to the Doctor, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, God, Doctor, I'm so sorry!" she sobbed. The Doctor, however taken by surprise he was, wrapped his arms tightly around his companion. A few tears slipped from his eyes. It had been so long since he'd had any human contact.

Rory's eyebrows creased with concern. If anything was out of character for his tough as nails wife, it must have been something like this. What on Earth happened?

"What's going on?" he asked. Amy pulled herself off of the Doctor, pulling herself together and wiping the tears from her eyes. Still shaky and crying just a bit, she explained the situation to Rory. He only froze, staring at the Doctor, simply unable to process.

"No… you can't-"

"I did," the Doctor assured him.

Rory stood silently for yet another moment, before leaning against the console, taking it all in little by little, "Oh my god," he said, awestruck.

"It's alright, though," The Doctor insisted, "It's all over now. I'm finally awake."


	7. Chapter 7

((Hello, ladies and gents! Sorry for taking so long to post more on this one. I've recently been getting more into the show 'Criminal Minds', so if anybody would be interested in seeing some criminal minds fics, shoot me a message!))

Sherlock stepped back from the vision he was seeing into another TARDIS, the same room but empty: The Doctor's mind. He'd made it. The plan was so far, going fine. So, he did end up helping him. That was an upside. Either way, he had to finish his family reunion soon, Sherlock had a body and a life to get back to. Luckily, as Sherlock could see what he was doing from within, he could see the Doctor go through with the plan.

He quickly remembered what he had to do, confusing the two people with him, rushing into a certain room and grabbing a smallish, circular piece of metal. He used his ship - as he called it, his TARDIS - and I knew he was piloting Earth. A voice that he only through his head ran through Sherlock's, and he knew it was time. He shut his eyes hard, created a hole in the ground, and leapt into Psychospace.

Again and again, he thought his own name, his own life, his own heart. The thoughts of the other creatures were like bullets, but it wasn't a hard journey, and he found himself soon in his body again. He opened his eyes wide. This was real, right? He looked around. Definitely real, every detail was in place. Nobody was here. Not John, not the nurses. He felt his chest for the metal plate. He didn't remove it, as he didn't know whether he still needed it. Alien heart assistance. Well, it certainly seemed to work. He sighed with relief. He was exhausted, but sleep sounded just about as attractive as a bullet to the head just about now. He didn't even shut his eyes. He just lay there… waiting…

As he kept his hand on his chest. He gasped as he felt the metal begin to sink. He looked down. His skin parted, and, like a liquid, came up over the metal as it sank into his chest. It didn't hurt, it didn't feel like anything. But still, his heart was beating by the time it was gone, so he supposed it was supposed to do that.

He didn't know how long it was until a nurse came in to check on him, and after her many more rushed in, including John. It all sort of rushed past him, like a blur, and he couldn't really react. He supposed this was bound to be a side effect of comatose; disorientation, hopefully not permanent. His body felt stiff and the world seemed to go in slow motion.

The next couple days that he spent in the hospital, he still wasn't doing much, but he was able to talk to John no. Not perfectly, still a little confused, but he was almost back to his normal self.

"So, it was because of prolonged oxygen loss?" Sherlock checked again, rubbing his eyes.

"Why are you so set on why?! You're awake now!" John insisted excitedly, "They told me any sort of confusion or damage isn't permanent, we can put all this behind us!"

"Mm…" Sherlock agreed halfheartedly. But still, somehow, he couldn't. What about the Doctor? The question nagged at him more and more, especially when he tried to let it go. What about the Doctor?

In a couple days he was out of the hospital and, aside from needing a bit more sleep and not being allowed to think too hard on problems, functioning totally normally. But still, the more he thought about the Doctor, the more it worried him. He put his hand over his heart, knowing for certain that the metal had to be there. Still, though, he hadn't seen the Doctor in his dreams at all. The more he thought about it, the littler the proof he had. Was he even… real?

Of course he was. Nonsense.

Still though, he felt he was on a quest to prove himself wrong. He thought of every detail from his dream, considering how he could alter it. First, he returned to the hospital and X-rayed himself. His hope began to fall apart when he found that his heart was totally normal, with no pieces of metal in it whatsoever. Maybe it had melted in? It was alien. It was possible.

His panic started rising, he didn't even talk to John when he got home. He took out his laptop, searching on the computer. "The Doctor," he searched. For a long time, he stared at the screen, his eyes going wide. John was calling his name, but he could barely hear it. No… it couldn't be.

That wasn't possible.

Now, no less than hysterical, he raced back to the hospital.

"I need to know what was on when I was in comatose! Anything with a Doctor!" he snarled at the nurse.

"What?!" he asked.

"On the T.V.! Show me!"

After a little more convincing, the nurse showed him a list of things that were likely on, some of them, news, some of them sitcoms, but only one seemingly meaningless commercial was important.

"That one," he insisted, "Play it."

The nurse did as he said. Sherlock watched with horror, as his final strand of hope was cut.

The commercial was a fiftieth anniversary for a popular show called Doctor Who, starring a man named the Doctor. It showed one of the most famous quotes of each of the incarnations of the Doctor.

" _Our destiny is in the stars, let's go and search for it."_

" _While you have been merely content to observe the evil in this galaxy, I have been fighting against it!"_

" _A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting,"_

" _There's no point in being a grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes!"_

Sherlock shook his head.

"No…" he whispered. None of it. None of it had happened at all. How could that be… but the more he considered it, the more likely it was. Now that he saw the show, he knew he had seen it before, that red planet he'd seen, the image of the Doctor, really played by an actor named Matt Smith. It was all fake.

He went home. John had questions, none of which he answered. He only stood by the window, peering at the pavement below. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt or how he was supposed to feel about the whole ordeal. Quite frankly, he still couldn't believe it. Yes, he was clever, but how did he make such emotion? The Doctor seemed so… human. So real.

He just stood there thinking until nearly one in the morning. Merriam Webster Dictionary defines a dream as "an idea or vision that is created in your imagination and is not real".

And maybe, just maybe, it's right…

Sherlock sat in the road of the black and white town he'd visited in his mind once before. The same faceless people walked by, the same buildings stood real as before. He looked to see where the blue box had been. It was no longer there. It had been nothing but a set, a prop, just as it was in the real world.

A voice spoke up behind him.

"You'll get run over like that, you know."

Sherlock rapidly stood and turned around. Nothing there. He waited a moment before he turned around again. This was his trademark. Slowly, he turned. And there he was. He gave a knowing smile and crossed his arms. Sherlock sighed.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I wanted to thank you," he responded, "For all of this."

Sherlock growled, unhappy about being mocked, "I didn't do anything, you know it. I was only dreaming."

"Yes, you were," The Doctor replied, "You just kept on dreaming, no matter how stupid it was, no matter how much danger you could have gotten in. And you have no idea how much I appreciate it… I'm pretty much a hypnophobic now, but I figured I just had to pop in and thank you."

Sherlock considered constructing an argument but before he could, the Doctor not so much stepped forward as appeared forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock's heart ached. He could feel every muscle, every garment of clothing. He felt real. After a moment, the Doctor let go and leaned back.

"Well, must dash, last thing I want is to get stuck again," The Doctor said cheerfully.

"Wait!" Sherlock objected. His mouth wagged for a few moments, the Doctor raising his eyebrows as Sherlock built up the courage to ask the question. "Are you real?" he said finally.

That same, traditional, not so sane grin spread out over the Doctor's face, the one Sherlock knew so well. He prepared to ask him more questions than just that, but at this point, his eyes were opened to the surroundings of his room.

Sherlock never dreamt about the Doctor again. He sort of figured, what with how much he thought of him, he'd at least have a guest appearance made up by his mind, but he truly was gone. And, as he was gone from his dreams, slowly, he was gone from his conscious mind. Like the loss of a friend, it was becoming easier and easier to believe that the Doctor was gone. Well, not gone. He never existed, he was a figment of his imagination. It was very simple, very sensible, the most logical explanation. And yet…

That look in his eyes.

That smile on his face.

Sherlock still couldn't rid it from his mind. Even if he didn't dream about it, he thought about it more than he took pride in. Something about it made it impossible to forget him. The question was closed, the Doctor was just a bad memory.

And yet, as those nonsense dreaming nights and contemplating days went on, Sherlock couldn't ignore the instinct that the Doctor and his TARDIS was more than just a dream.

_END_


End file.
